Free The Chef's Apprentice: A Novel by Elle Newmark

and she laughed girlishly. My heart hammered in my chest, pounded behind my eyes, and throbbed in the tips of my fingers. I knew I should leave, but—did they have a love potion?
    She said, “Our potion is no use to the old doge, but for you and me … come here, amore .” I heard another shifting of bedclothes, another whisper, and a low giggle. “The girls are asleep, eh?”
    “I have things on my mind.”
    “So serious,” she purred. “A tiny sip will make you feel better.” There was more rustling of bed linens, the sound of a drawer sliding open, glass clinking on glass, liquid being poured, and then a strange smell seeped out to the balcony: smoky and nutlike—it made me think of burnt chestnuts—a strange, dark aroma that was somehow bracing. I heard the lady’s provocative hum, like a woman eating a delicious fruit. She said, “Shall we indulge, amore mio ?”
    Meanwhile, the cats faced each other with arched backs.
    The chef said, “Not tonight, Rosa.” There was a pause, then more movement in the bed.
    “Amato”—she sounded surprised—“you’re really turning away from me?” I heard the chink of a glass being set on the night table.
    “I’m sorry,” said the chef. “I can’t stop thinking about … there’s more to that book than you know.”
    “What more?” A moment passed. “Amato? What is it?”
    As I waited for his answer, I pressed my back hard against the wall to stay clear of the cats. The fur on their backs stood straight up, inflating them to twice their size. They bared pointy white teeth, one spat, the other hissed, and then they sprang. I didn’t know which to fear more, being injured in the war of claws or being discovered by Chef Ferrero. Their shrieks tore through the night,and the sound was raw and bone chilling, like the screams of tortured babies.
    From the bedroom, I heard, “ Dio . Now what?” The chef rushed to the door and pulled it wide open. I felt his presence just inches from me, peering out into the darkness, and I pressed my back harder against the wall, my eyes shut tight like a child who thinks if he can’t see, he can’t be seen. Sweat prickled at my hairline.
    The chef said, “Get out of here!” A slipper sailed out of the bedroom and hit one of the cats squarely on the head.
    Immediately, the screeching subsided and I opened one eye. The cats had backed off to skulk in the shadows, eyeing each other, canny and vicious, sizing up the next assault.
    “Dio,” said the chef. “Maybe we should get a dog.”
    I saw his bare foot advance from the recessed doorway and my stomach turned over. At the same time, Signora Ferrero said, “Come back, Amato. Tell me about this book.”
    He hesitated, then said, “ Sì . I think they’re finished.” The foot retreated. The chef went back to his wife, and silence fell on the bedroom. Water lapped at the chef’s gondola, and the cats issued muted warnings.
    After a minute, the chef said, “Rosa, you’re my touchstone.”
    “Such drama. What is this about?”
    “This bizarre murder is significant. I believe the time has come to tell you about the book. But you can never repeat what I say—not to anyone. And if there’s trouble, if ever I don’t come home from work, you must go immediately to your sister’s house. But don’t stay there long. As soon as you can, go to your father in Aosta. He can hide you in the mountains.”
    “Now you’re frightening me. Amato, please, what is this about?”
    The bed creaked as the chef moved closer to his wife. I inched nearer the door, cupped a hand to my ear, and struggled to hear. He said, “Rosa—”
    One cat rose vertically into the air, like a sorcerer’s marionette, and hurled itself at the other. Howls ripped through the night. The cats were only an arm’s length away, and I saw claws tear across a yellow eye. I squeezed myself into the corner between the wall and railing and raised my forearm to protect my face. There was a savage grappling